Soaring High With Blood-Stained Wings
by Alexia Blackbriar
Summary: S3 AU. Sherlock died when he jumped off of St. Bart's. Except nobody knew he had an archangel as his guardian. Sherlock has returned, except now he has massive black wings and his soul has been turned into Grace. Sherlock Holmes is an angel. How will John, Mary, Molly and Lestrade react now the stakes have changed? Every S3 Ep except Sherlock is an angel. Disclaimer; please review!
1. Chapter 1 - Shining Grace

AN I know I really shouldn't be starting a new story but the plot bunnies were attacking me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this.

I've written a second chapter but please review if you think I should continue. It's a season 3 AU and I'm planning to go all the way through while adding extra cases as well. I'd love to hear suggestions for the extra cases as well. Thanks.

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Sherlock jumped. The wind rushed through his dark locks and his coat caught the downward breeze making it flap like a pair of wings. He heard John scream his name. It was all too quick, too fast to deduce. As Sherlock fell he remembered Moriarty's words. Sherlock had claimed to be on the side of angels. Moriarty had not known how accurate he had been.

Overwhelming light blinded his eyes as Sherlock suddenly appeared in a lush green garden. There were orchids and roses and tulips and bluebells and lilies and - STOP! There was too much. Too much information overloading his Mind Palace, the bright smells and colours intruding into his thoughts.

Then -

"Hello, Sherlock."

He turned. It was a man, tall with sandy brown hair. He had piercing silver eyes and wore a white suit. Pure white wings hung majestically from his shoulder blades, each feather shining with barely contained Grace and power. They had a magnificent wingspan of four metres - no, four point two, Sherlock noted.

"Michael," Sherlock replied shortly.

The archangel bowed his head in acknowledgement, his wings stretching out slightly and giving one wild erratic flap while he smiled warmly at the detective. Sherlock glanced around at the garden once more before resting his hands in his signature Belstaff, gazing at the archangel.

"I wasn't sure you'd agree to my terms," Sherlock told Michael coldly. "You did not reply to my last prayer."

Michael smiled and answered apologetically, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm a busy man. I receive over seventeen point four million prayers a day. It takes quite a filing system to get them sorted."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

Michael's smile dropped and he regarded Sherlock worriedly. "Are you sure you want to return, Sherlock? Your heaven is waiting upstairs for you. Nobody would judge you if seeked eternal salvation. You did just jump off a building after all."

"I had to," Sherlock informed him. "If I hadn't, John would have died. Better I be dead than him."

"He wishes he was dead right now," Michael told him quietly. "He's praying for you."

Oh god oh god oh god oh god sweet Jesus NO NO NO NO SHERLOCK NO OH GOD SHERLOCK NO PLEASE NO you can't be dead please don't don't don't don't please no god no please don't be dead Sherlock no no SHERLOCK SHERLOCK NO NO PLEASE BE ALIVE NO NO DON'T BE DEAD SHERLOCK NO NO OH GOD OH GOD NO...

The sobbing mental voice was projected through the room and Sherlock closed his eyes, pained. Michael watched him calmly before waving the voice away and it faded into the bright light and beautiful flowers.

"What do I do?" Sherlock eventually asked in a strangled voice. "Mycroft and Molly, they have my corpse."

"You told them you would survive," Michael remembered. "You said that when your body was taken in, you would live."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And I did not."

Michael looked around the garden cautiously before stepping closer and telling Sherlock quietly, "Look, Sherlock, as head archangel I can do stuff. I'm technically allowed to do whatever I want, leader of heavenly host and all."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Sherlock, if I accepted your soul into our ranks you would be able to be stationed back on Earth and live again."

"You mean...become...an angel."

"Yes," Michael agreed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "You want me as an angel." When the archangel nodded the detective snorted and turned away. "You're completely insane. I am not worthy to become an angel."

Michael smiled at him gently before laying a hand on his charge's shoulder. "Let me tell you something Sherlock. I have met and seen over ninety three thousand and fifty seven billion souls accepted into Heaven. Some are Christian. Some are not. Some are heroes and some are cowards. Sherlock Holmes, you are more than worthy of our ranks. You are courageous, clever and you sacrificed yourself to save three of your closest friends and you did it without a moment's hesitation. Now that - that is bravery. So Sherlock Holmes, it would be an absolute honour to accept your soul into Heaven's Host."

"What would happen if I said yes?" Sherlock questioned cautiously.

"I would replace your soul with holy Grace. You would memorise thirty thousand scriptures. You would be in service to me. You would be in service to God. And with your Grace shall come your wings and you shall be gifted with flight." Michael stated this as if it was rehearsed and said it firmly and without hesitation. Then he softened and said, "And in your service to me I would place you down on Earth in the Christian country of England and you would live amongst humans and there you would fight and condemn all who threaten Faith."

"How soon could I get back?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Today if I gifted you with Grace. You would become a lower Seraph immediately and be given passage out of the Northern gates down unto the Earth. And on the winds of ice and fire you will ride down to England and your wings shall be blessed with English Faith."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snapping, "Shut up, Michael, you sound like you're reciting from scripture."

"I am," Michael replied and he pulled out from his suit pocket an old parchment. "From Heaven's scribe himself, Metatron. He writes the word of God. And this is God's will."

Sherlock hesitated before asking, to confirm, "I'll see John again?"

"Of course."

"Then I say yes."

Michael grinned and placed one hand on Sherlock's forehead. Immediately Sherlock felt his insides burst into flame. A searing burning heat clawed at his heart and burned with the light of a thousand suns. Yet the heat did not hurt. It was warm and fresh and lovely like a summer breeze and hot water bottles and beautiful tea. When Sherlock looked up again, his senses were even more heightened than usual and he felt two extra limbs. He lifted his wings and spread them out and the archangel stared in awe at the majestic black wings stretched out into the sky before him. The feathers shone and shimmered nightingale blue in the light of Sherlock's Grace.

Michael had seen many angel wings in his time, yet Sherlock's had to be one of the most magnificent pair he had ever seen. They were almost as large as his own, but were sleek and built for a warrior. While Michael's wings were meant for intimidation and leadership, Sherlock's wings were meant for stealth and speed.

"How do you feel?" Michael questioned his newest angel.

Sherlock turned to him and replied, "Impossible."

Michael laughed and Sherlock, now able to hear his real voice, heard bells chime in time. "Well, brother, your vessel lies below on Earth. It is time for you to go to duty."

"Yes, brother," Sherlock replied, "And I am extremely grateful, Michael. I cannot thank you enough."

Sherlock turned to where the Northern gates stood in the distance and was about to take flight, but Michael grabbed his sleeve. When he glanced about, he saw the unreadable emotion in the archangel's eyes.

"Sherlock. Be warned, you can be recalled back to Heaven for duty. Just because I have stationed you on Earth does not mean you are there to stay. The Revelations approach and Raphael is restless. Have caution, brother."

Sherlock dipped his head before taking flight. He was returning to Earth.

...

Mycroft sat silently in his office, head in his hands. He had recently received the news about his little brother's swam dive off St. Bart's. It pained him and tore at his heart because it was his fault. It was his fault Moriarty had destroyed Sherlock's life. Now his little brother was dead. Sherlock had been moved from St. Bart's morgue to their family estate and was lying motionlessly in his childhood room. Molly Hooper had completed all the autopsy forms and reports for Mycroft and left the estate soon after, tears in her eyes

Mycroft could not understand Sherlock's message. Before his jump, Sherlock had sent him a text, just one word in capitals - 'ARCHANGEL'. The message did not make any sense. What did archangel mean? There was no code in the text, he was sure of it. And apparently Sherlock had told Molly Hooper very surely beforehand that he would survive the jump.

Mycroft sighed and stood, pouring another glass of his favourite whiskey and sighing, leaning back with one hand on his desk. His office door opened. The elder Holmes looked up then dropped his glass. Shards shattered on the wooden flooring. The golden alcohol pooled at his feet.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him cheerily, flexing his wings. "Now, let's get down to business."

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**AN Thank you so much for reading. It's my birthday as well today so if I could get ten reviews or more it would be my perfect present.**

**Please Review! Should I continue this?**


	2. Chapter 2 - Broken Feathers

**AN: Hey guys. I know I should be updating other stories but positive response from this made the plot bunnies excited. 'Hint hint'**

**Please review at the end. It really helps With depression and GCSEs.**

...

Sherlock wheezed for breath, his long straggly hair hanging down the front of his face as he slumped as far forward as he could, exhausted and limp, hanging from the chains carved with Enochian symbols binding his power. His wings, being held on a separate dimension plane to avoid getting them injured, were no help. Trapped in a ring of holy fire, the angel was powerless. He was practically human. A Serbian torturer danced around him, punching and slicing and cutting, causing pain to shoot down Sherlock's nerves.

"You broke in here for a reason," the torturer snarled.

He picked up a large metal pipe and walked towards his prisoner threateningly. Sherlock flinched violently, trembling. This man, this Serbian, had been warned. Somebody had warned him that the angel was coming and he had prepared. After Sherlock had killed Sebastian Moran, word had probably spread around the web speaking of the angel Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's Grace ached, but he did not speak.

"Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?"

Sherlock remembered sleep. Back when he was human, that was. As an angel, he didn't need sleep, or food. But his vessel and Grace were exhausted and he needed rest. He weakly shook his head at the torturer. The Serbian drew back the pipe over his shoulder and prepared to strike the prisoner. Sherlock flinched.

Quickly, he whispered, "You...used to work in the navy...where you had a love affair...that was unhappy..."

"What?"

The torturer leant down and Sherlock exhaustedly repeated the deduction. The Serbian man started in astonishment.

The soldier standing by the door asked, "Well? What did he say?.

Straightening up and releasing the prisoner's head, the torturer looked down at Sherlock in puzzlement. "He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair." Sherlock continued weakly, and the torturer relayed the deduction to the soldier. "... that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!"

He reached down and pulled Sherlock's head up by the hair again, and the angel grunted painfully, while the Serbian demanded to know who. The prisoner replied briefly and the man released his head. Sherlock dropped down and sighed in relief.

"The coffin maker!" The Serbian growled.

Once again he bent to the prisoner, demanding more. Sherlock responded in a clipped and pained whisper. As he told the torturer his information, the Serbian snarled in rage

"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it!" The Serbian shouted angrily. "I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

Furiously, the torturer stormed out of the room, leaving Sherlock slumped in his chains. He sighed in relief and tiredness, and finally able to free himself, the two dimensions blurred and Sherlock's wings appeared. The black appendages hung limply from his torn and staining back, the feathers rustling and trembling.

The soldier left in the room did not appear shocked though. "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me." He dropped his feet off the table and stood up. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you, blud."

He surged across the room to Sherlock, whose back was covered in blood and wounds from his beating. The soldier grabbed a handful of the Sherlock's hair and yanked his head up a little. Sherlock moaned quietly in pain and flinched away, wings shaking from exertion.

Leaning close to Sherlock's ear, the soldier whispered urgently, "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Finally, he released the prisoner's head and straightened up. Sherlock grunted but felt relief surge through him. Mycroft Holmes. His brother was here, and was saving him. Mycroft was now unlocking the Enochian chains and Sherlock gasped as he felt his Grace burning now and he shuddered as his powers were returned and freed. He experimentally flexed his wings. Powerful muscles rippled and Grace flowed through his veins like adrenalin. He felt alive again.

Mycroft grinned gently at his brother. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.

And after two years of fighting and fleeing, of spreading his wings and taking to the air to hunt down Moriarty's network, Sherlock felt hopeful. Because Baker Street meant Doctor John Watson.

Sherlock smiled.

...

Sherlock lay on his back on a barber's chair, wings splayed out underneath him and onto the floor, fiddling with the front page of a newspaper that read 'SKELETON MYSTERY'. He felt relatively safe in Mycroft's office, but really he was just relieved to be back in England. He lowered the newspaper to glance towards his brother, twitching his primary feathers.

Seated behind his desk and thoroughly reading a file, Mycroft commented dryly, "You have been busy, haven't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the newspaper onto a nearby trolley. His hair was wet and back to his usual length. His back, still painful from the beatings, was now almost completely healed after four hours of his Grace running freely inside of him.

Mycroft chuckled. "Quite the busy little bee."

Sherlock sighed, flexing his shoulder blades. "Moriarty's network – took me two years to dismantle it. Flights all around the world, infiltrating companies and shutting down estates and accounts; it's finally all over. The whole web has been properly dismantled now."

The elder Holmes turned to him seriously. "And you're confident there are no remains?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft smirked, looking down at the files once again, shifting in his seat. "Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

Realising his brother was mocking him, Sherlock snarled back, "Colossal."

Mycroft smiled to himself, shutting the file and informing him, "Anyway, you're safe now."

The angel glanced about him cautiously. It wasn't that he didn't 'trust' his brother, bit he did not trust the British government one bit. Sherlock only replied with, "Hmm."

Mycroft's smile fell and he glared at Sherlock, folding his arms. "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock grunted, "What for?"

Mycroft scowled. "For wading in."

Furious, Sherlock raised a hand to the barber to make him stop shaving him. The man stepped back a little as Sherlock rolled uncomfortably, his position putting pressure on his wings. His feathers were ruffled slightly so he reached out to smooth them down.

"In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu," Mycroft grimaced, glowering at his younger brother.

Snarling in pain, Sherlock heaved himself up and stared at his brother, enraged. He flared his wings defensively and Mycroft gazed at them warily. "'Wading in'?" the angel growled. "You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp while my Grace was suppressed!"

Mycroft frowned indignantly. "I got you out!"

"No – I got me out. I got us both out. We would still be in Serbia if I couldn't fly. Why didn't you intervene sooner?" His arms shook slightly as he tried to push himself up, folding his wings in again against his back.

Mycroft looked angry at his younger brother's outburst. "Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You were enjoying it," he accused.

Affronted, Mycroft hissed, "Nonsense."

Sherlock snorted. "Definitely enjoying it."

Mycroft leant forwards, eyes glittering. "Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover', smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise; the people?" He said the last word in disdain, like it tasted wrong in his mouth.

The elder Holmes sat back, glancing away angrily. Sherlock painfully sank backwards to lie down in the chair again. His wings ached so he stretched them out - they were so long and large that the tips ended up curling around the desk and brushing Mycroft's legs. The barber resumed his work, oblivious to the uncomfortable expression that had settled on his employer's face.

"Sherlock. I am glad you are safe, no matter what you entice yourself to think," Mycroft told his brother quietly, now writing notes on the file. "You may serve The Lord now, but you are still my brother."

"Ugh, sentiment," the angel muttered. "Stop, Mycroft, or I might actually think that you care." Sherlock turned his shoulder, which caused his wing to brush against his elder brother's leg. Once he realised, Sherlock retracted his wings slightly to avoid the touching.

Mycroft, fuming, reached out and grabbed the wing in his grip. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't Sherlock crying out in agony and instantly snapping his wings inwards, and Mycroft's insides to writhe.

"Don't do that," Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft leant back and shuffled slightly, folding his arms tight across his chest. He watched the angel with an interested gaze as Sherlock smoothed down the feathers that Mycroft had bent.

"How did they trap you?" Mycroft eventually asked.

"The chains," Sherlock replied shortly. "They had Enochian sigils on them. They knew I was coming." He quickly changed the subject. "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."

Mycroft pursed his lips at the sudden subject change but explained, "I didn't, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." He shrugged, smirking slightly. "Took me a couple of hours."

The angel didn't look up from his preening while the barber continued to shave him, silent in the whole conversation. Sherlock finally gave a smug grin and commented, "Hmm – you're slipping."

Smiling tightly, Mycroft tried to suppress his annoyance. "Middle age, brother mine," he said, the irritation only slightly noticeable. "Comes to us all."

Suddenly, the door opened and Anthea – or not-Anthea, as Sherlock had never tried to deduce Mycroft's PA's real name– held up a dark suit and white shirt on a hanger to show to Sherlock, not phased at all by the large black wings. The angel smiled and heaved himself upwards again, with only a small pained grunt this time. The barber finished off, washing the cream off and cleaning up before leaving without a word. Sherlock took the suit and set it down while he viciously rubbed his hair with a towel to dry it. He pulled up his shirt and examined it before pulling it on, along with trousers. The clothes slipped straight over his wings as if they were an illusion, but it was clear they were indeed real when Sherlock flapped them once to get used to the suit again. Anthea turned away and stood just behind Mycroft.

"You'll have to hide them somehow," Mycroft mused, waving a hand towards the quivering masses of raven feathers. "We can't have an angel walking around London with his wings out. You'll be attacked, arrested."

"Of course, don't be stupid Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "The only reason you can see them now is Grace."

Mycroft paused, confused, before repeating, "Grace?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes, brother, Grace. I marked your soul with my Grace so you may see a manifestation of my wings. If you were to look upon my true form your eyes would burn out."

"Charming," Mycroft commented, grimacing. "So I presume you will mark Dr Watson also with your Grace so he may see your wings."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What? No!" He responded quickly, unable to disguise the slight fear in his voice. "I'm not telling him I'm an angel."

"You will tell him, Sherlock," Mycroft warned, eyes piercing, his voice low. "Or I will." When Sherlock did not comment, he continued. "Your decision was one that affected many, Sherlock. Dr Watson has grieved for you the last two years and believes you dead. When you reveal yourself he will question how you survived. Be rational - He deserves an explanation."

"What am I meant to say?" Sherlock spat out. "That the archangel Michael was my guardian angel and when I died, he offered to make me an angel so I could return to life to shut down the rest of Moriarty's network?"

Anthea blinked and gave a small snort. Sherlock pointed to her, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft glared at her and Anthea smirked.

"He'll think I'm insane," Sherlock muttered. "Worse, he'll believe he's hallucinating."

"Sherlock. I thought you deceased but when you came to me and explained the situation, I believed you," Mycroft told him. "And he will not be able to deny the truth when he sees you."

As he turned to a mirror and tucked his shirt into his trousers, Sherlock gave a small rejected nod. "I will tell him, Mycroft, but I will do it on my own terms." Then stating in a brighter tone, "So, terrorist attack...exciting!"

Mycroft crossed his arms seriously. "I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

Teasingly, Sherlock spread his wings and checked the mirror. "What do you think of this shirt?" He questioned distractedly.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed, exasperated.

The angel rolled his eyes, tucking his wings in again. "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." He briefly glanced at his brother. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart. A quick flight over the rooftops should do it. Stretch my wings a bit, get some English air."

Anthea angrily stated, "One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."

Sherlock glanced at her, shrugging his jacket on. "And what about John Watson?"

Anthea threw an exasperated glance towards Mycroft. Mycroft sighed. "John?"

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured. "Have you seen him?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sarcastically said, "Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips." He gestured to Anthea, who handed Sherlock a folder. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course, as you requested."

Sherlock flicked open the file, wings twitching agitatedly. There were two black and white surveillance photos of John and a detailed report. Sherlock felt a pang in his Grace when he gazed upon the face of his old flat-mate.

"You haven't spoke to Miss Hooper? Tried to prepare him?" Mycroft questioned. "Not one word?"

Sherlock distractedly answered, "No. After all, you wouldn't let me." He shot a glare towards his brother. He turned back to gaze at the picture of John who apparently had a new moustache. Sherlock shook his head. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "'We'?"

Closing the file and dropping it carelessly on the desk, Sherlock scoffed. "He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." The angel twitched his wings while adjusting his cuffs. "I think I'll surprise John," he decided carefully. "He'll be delighted!"

Smiling cynically, Mycroft crossed his eyes. "You think so?"

"Hmm. I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake." He accompanied this with wild hand moments and a quick beat of both wings, scattering a few black feathers across the office.

"Baker Street?" Mycroft frowned. "He isn't there any more. Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

Sherlock frowned, looking confused. "What life? I've been away."

Mycroft rolled his eyes without actually rolling them, a great feat for the older brother as Sherlock finished doing up his cuffs.

"Where's he going to be tonight?" the angel questioned curiously.

"How would I know?" Mycroft replied back swiftly and defensively.

Sherlock gave a small snort and strode around his older brother, wing tips brushing Mycroft's back. "You always know."

Mycroft sighed, swinging his umbrella. "He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion ..." He licked his lips, frowning. "Though I prefer the 2001."

Sherlock shrugged his wings. "I think maybe I'll just drop by."

Mycroft regarded his brother seriously. 'You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. "No it isn't." He stretched his wings once and looked down at his watch, checking the time. "Now, where is it?"

"Where's what?" Mycroft questioned.

"You know what," Sherlock replied, regarding him with serious eyes.

Anthea also knew what, because she immediately appeared in the open doorway holding Sherlock's Belstaff coat. Sherlock smiled with delight, and slid his arms into the sleeves as Anthea lifted it into position. She had even already popped the collar for him.

Anthea gave a dry smile. "Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock pulled the collar tips into a better position, saying graciously, "Thank you ..." He turned to face his brother and sarcastically stated, "... blud."

Without a moment's notice he spread his wings and teleported onto the rooftop of a tall building in the centre of London. He gazed over his favourite city and the bustling traffic below and smiled. He stretched his wings to catch the English breeze and breathed.

London. He was home again.

...

**Please review with ideas and such. They really cheer me up from GCSEs.**

**I'm really debating over whether or not I should get Sherlock to tell John and Mary after the restuarant, have Mycroft tell John and Mary and for them both to confront Sherlock feeling betrayed or whether or not when John gets put in the bonfire, Sherlock reveals his wings to Mary and they fly to the Church and Sherlock heals John then they find out.**

**Should Molly find out? When should Lestrade find out? Help! Reviews with ideas please!**


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